Letting Go
by Hannah Tennant-Cumberbatch
Summary: Clara Oswald never planned on filling another nanny position, but when her best friend Amy Pond introduces her to John Smith—a man slowly falling apart in the aftermath of his wife's death and four children he can't keep control of—she finds that her whole life alters completely, in more ways that just one. [Twelve x Clara AU]


_A/N: Surprise! It's me! After a really long break I've decided to start uploading whouffle stuff again-I'm slowly getting back into it, bear with me. Anyway, hope you enjoy this little au that I've been working on. Reviews would be appreciated, especially after such a long time not writing anything. Hope you enjoy! x_

_Disclaimer: Don't own Doctor Who._

**Chapter One**

She'd stumbled into the job completely by accident. It wasn't as if she was actively looking for another nanny position—after the Maitland family outgrew their need for her she'd thought she'd move onto something different, actually put her English degree to some use—but, as usual, propositions just seemed to pop up when Clara Oswald least expected them and she either felt a) too guilty or b) too strapped for cash to turn them down. Unlike Mr Maitland and his two kids Angie and Artie, Clara had never met or been acquainted with the new family for whom she was looking after the children for, but the situation was tragically similar—a widowed father and four youngish children left without a mother, and yet another occasion where Clara's heart bleeds and can't possibly turn them away. It's a position she's all too familiar with: she knows what it's like to feel loss and grief at a young age, and she knows how hard it is to go through it alone.

-x-

Clara's stood in the line at Starbucks with her best friend Amy Pond, who unlike Clara has actually put her English degree to good use by writing articles in travel magazines. Amy's red hair matches her sky-high levels of confidence, all fire and wit—she's the kind of the girl that can natter on about everything and nothing for hours on end in her dulcet Scottish tones, so most of the time Clara ends just zoning out and nodding when she looks particularly enthusiastic. It's yet another one of those conversations so she barely registers when Amy starts going on about this family friend John something-or-other, instead finding the drinks menu incredibly interesting and new even though she orders the same drink every time (always peppermint tea).

"It's actually kind of heartbreaking, really," Amy muses, brown eyes distant, "It's something no-one deserves. Right, Clara?"

Clara flinches at the sound of her name. When Amy looks suggestively at her, there's no point in keeping up her listening façade if the question isn't even rhetorical. She guiltily bites her lip. "Sorry, what?"

Amy rolls her eyes, but there's a smile tugging the corners of her lips. She's not angry. Clara's not the kind of person she gets angry with. "I was saying about John. His wife died about three months ago in an accident—he's stuck looking after four kids on his own."

Clara's face falls: if there's one thing she connects with, it's real loss stories. She suddenly feels guilty for not listening in the first place. "Oh God. That's awful."

Amy half-smiles. Her fingernails thrum against the countertop. Around them, the coffee shop is in the middle of the mid-morning rush, men and women in business suits sat with laptops and mobile phones glued to one hand and coffee to the other. There's a relaxing burr of voices, too intertwined to pick out particular conversations, and Clara feels somewhat at home. "Yeah. I mean… They were so in love, John and River, and they never did anything wrong. Yet something like that happens. It just makes me think about what _I'd _do if something like that happened to Rory."

Clara pauses for a moment, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "I guess it happens, and eventually you move on. What else can you do? It's horrible, but it's life."

Amy looks as if she's going to protest, but recognition flits across her features and she falters. She sighs, looking to see how many more people are in front of the queue. Clara sees that there are still three more people to go and the queue is almost out the door behind them—she often feels if she was a barista she would organise some sort of controlled formation which didn't involve confused orders and general workforce ineptness. Maybe she _should _become a barista. At least then she could put her superb leadership skills to some use.

"Anyway, as I was saying, John's really not coping with the kids," Amy informs, "Mum and I went over there last week and the house is in disarray, like he's struggling to control his own life let alone anyone else's." Clara remembers her own dad forgetting school concerts and birthdays and dirty dishes. "The oldest, Jenny, she's around fifteen I think—Mum had to take her shoe shopping because he'd forgotten to replace her old ones which were falling to pieces."

Clara recognises all the symptoms of grief. She'd watched it through her own dad and through Mr Maitland, like abruptly _everything _just changes because your other half is gone. She's heard crying behind locked bathroom doors because someone who obviously had shit for brains made it a rule that it wasn't okay to cry in front of your family. It was cruel at times, loss, but gradually the ache would dull and the world would keep spinning and she hoped that Amy's John and his four kids would learn to move on much like herself and her father did quite a few years ago now.

"What they really need is someone to help them out, but John doesn't like the idea of strangers looking after his kids," Amy pauses for a second, before tilting her head up to look at Clara. "You were a nanny for a while, weren't you?"

Clara rolls her eyes. She knows where this is going. "You know I was, Amy. And before you get carried away no, I'm not doing it again."

"But _why _not?" Amy exclaims, smile wide and arms gesticulating wildly, "You're currently unemployed _and _you have experience."

"Yeah, I know," Clara groans—she'd been dragged into some of Amy's schemes while in uni and didn't want to be dragged into anything else. "But you just said he didn't like strangers and considering I've never met the guy I wouldn't consider myself the best option."

The three people in front of them in the queue dissipate finally, so Amy places an order with the cute barista with the floppy fringe and massive chin who makes her giggle, before turning back to Clara. She'd thought the interruption would have deterred Amy from her ludicrous proposition, but Clara knew better than to think Amy Pond would ever drop a trail of thought. "You're not a stranger, though, are you? You've been personally recommended by me. John's known me since I was like, seven. He trusts my judgement."

"Amy, you _know _I'm trying to get on a teaching course…" Floppy-fringe hands Amy her change with a very adorable smile, "I'm really not interested and I'm sure your John isn't either."

"I'm sure he is. He just hasn't admitted it out loud yet."

Amy accepts her coffee with a grin, standing back to let Clara go to the front of the queue. She hurriedly places her order and hands over the change—she almost asks floppy fringe for his number, but decides against giving Amy any more ammunition to probe her with on the short walk back to Amy's flat. The peppermint tea is made in less than three minutes, which is a large contrast to what felt like the hourly wait for everyone else's drinks, and the barista passes Clara a paper cup with a heart-melting smile and a cheeky quip about her 'funny nose'. She should hate him, but for that smile she would let him say anything, so she just grins back and walks away back to Amy.

"Before anything, that barista was _totally _into you," Amy clucks approvingly, and Clara thinks the earlier conversation may have dropped, but is sadly mistaken when Amy doesn't let her reply. "And I want to introduce you to John."

There's no way of getting away from it. The pair step out of the warmth of the café to the cool September air, autumn leaves decorating the pavements with collages of reds and golds and oranges. Autumn is Clara's favourite month: it celebrates the admittance that everything ends but it can end beautifully, not brutally, with the satisfying crunch of bronzed foliage beneath her boots and streams of crimsons across the skyline. She wished everything could end like this: totally expected and prepared for.

Clara takes a sip of tea and it warms her from the inside out, but even the comforts of her favourite hot drink can't push away Amy's incessant stubborn tendencies. "No, Amy, honestly. Don't."

"Clara," Amy grabs onto her shoulders, causing Clara to stumble and almost spill tea over herself. "John is going through this on his _own. _We do his best to help him, but he needs someone to be there all the time, to just keep an eye on things. Even if he doesn't know that himself. You can be the uh… Glue! Yeah, glue, that can help bind them together again."

"Amy, he's _grieving._" Clara reminded her. Amy frowned. No-one close to Amy had died: it wasn't as if she couldn't comment on it, she just didn't understand that maybe things didn't go back to normal as quickly as she thought. "Maybe he's right about the strangers' thing. They need to be a family right now. They don't need me butting in."

"But they _do! _I can't believe I never thought of this before." When Amy sees Clara's sceptical expression she sighs and relaxes, running a hand through her bright red hair. "Okay, okay. Fine. I'm not going to force you into anything, but I was going round to John's this evening—he finishes at six on a Thursday—and maybe you could come with me? Y'know. Just casually."

Clara raises an eyebrow dubiously. "Casually?"

Amy waves her hand dismissively, taking a sip of coffee. "Sure. And I'll _casually _mention that you're a nanny—"

"I am _not _a nanny Amy, I just happen to—"

"_Okay, _I'll _casually _mention that you're not-actually-a-nanny-but-you-are-and-you're-unemployed-and-need-money and he may say he's not interested or he might go 'Ooh! Amy! Well that's just dandy because you know I'm in desperate need of someone whose not-actually-a-nanny-but-is-and-is-unemployed to look after my children so I don't have a mental breakdown!'" Amy paused for another sip of coffee, "Trust me, he'll take one look at you and think _I'd trust that girl with my children._ And if you're endorsed by me… Well, its fate, isn't it?"

Clara is about to inform Amy that fate doesn't really work like that, but the look of determination on her best friend's face deters her otherwise. Amy's in a mood where the word _no _just won't suffice and she won't stop going on about it unless Clara agrees to her demands—Amy is the only person bossier than she is.

Clara sighs, and Amy almost squeals with delight because she knows that she's given in. "Fine. _Fine. _I'll come. But I'm not promising anything, Amy. Even if he offers, I might still say no."

The conclusion seems decent enough to Amy and she nods in agreement. "Sure. Whatever. Anyway…" she looks down at her watch, the glass face difficult to see in the early autumn sun. "I've got to dash to the office, but I'll come over to yours at around quarter to six? He doesn't live far away from the Maitland's actually, Clara. In Chiswick."

Chiswick. She'd accidentally spent about four years there, looking after Angie and Artie, and just after she'd thought she'd left living the area for good she was u-turning straight back again. Albeit, Amy's John might want nothing to do with her and she'd be back, living with her dad—or maybe she'd say no, but the thought of one man struggling through such a difficult time with four children almost broke her apart.

"Sure. Fine," Clara grabs Amy's shoulders in a quick hug and before she knows it the busy redhead is a spot in the distance, turquoise coat and alarmingly loud hair the only thing distinguishing her body from the rest of the crowd. Clara's sometimes jealous of Amy: she's got her dream job in journalism, a steady boyfriend who would do anything for her and an electric personality which does wonders for her social life. She'd never say that out loud, of course, because Clara has this complex about her which doesn't let anyone know how she's really feeling because it's generally easier that way—her dad's the only person who has actually seen her cry. People take you seriously if you show you're not affected by things which people are usually affected by.

Clara begins to slowly walk back home—it's sort of depressing, really, because she's twenty-seven and a half years old yet she's wandering round the streets in the middle of the afternoon alone—but for the moment, she savours the loneliness. She's spent so many years running after someone else's kids and even though she loves Angie and Artie to _pieces _it was nice to get her own life back for a moment or two. Clara's torn: does she try and continue along her original career path and try and get on a teaching course, or does she abandon her university careers adviser's guidance and go _back _to running after someone else's kids? Does she think of her own life for once carry on managing a stranger's?

She takes a detour through the park, which lengthens her journey by around ten minutes but she feels like she needs the air. The grass is freshly cut, emanating that freshly-cut smell, and it helps clear her head a bit. She's a sucker for a sob story and it was true, she did have experience. No matter how many times she tries to convince herself that she would easily turn down a nanny position if this John offers it to her, she _knows _if she takes one look at a man struggling to piece his life back together and four young children who are desperate for care and attention that she'll crumble and accept.

Okay, maybe she didn't exactly stumble into her new job—more persuaded—but Clara Oswald _knew _that if John wanted her, she probably [definitely] wasn't going to end up saying no.


End file.
